Hate Not Sins But Self
by Noxaura Cille
Summary: The contents of the photos were disturbing, for lack of a better term. L wasn't expecting to see anything like it during this case. Incriminating evidence? Maybe. But this? No. Definitely not.
1. Discovery

**_(Trigger Warning: Suicide, Depression, Self-Harm, Eating Disorder, Fear of Death, Character Death, Self-Hate, other possibly triggering content)_**

* * *

 _"When you are guilty, it is not your sins you hate but yourself."_

 _~Anthony de Mello, One Minute Wisdom_

* * *

 _I once read a quote that I scoffed at before moving on, not believing the stupidity of it._

 _Now, however, I believe it._

 _That quote was,"When you are guilty, it is not your sins you hate but yourself." And it's true._

 _I absolutely loathe myself._

 _Why?_

 _I'm Kira. I was and am and always will be. I'm sorry for being too much of a coward and giving up my goal._

 _I just... I'm so tired. And the guilt of it is eating me alive._

 _I don't say, "Goodbye", "Farewell", "I'll see you again", or, "Don't cry for me" because you don't need that, and I won't. Because I can't go to Heaven or Hell. Besides, you probably wanted me, a heartless murderer, dead anyway._

 _So... I'm so sorry for tearing apart your families and lives and killing off criminals. I'm sorry I'm so messed up._

 _I'm sorry I don't regret it._

 _And I'm sorry for wasting your time. You were probably doing more important things before you found this._

 _-Raito Yagami (Kira)_

* * *

The letter was found next to the hanging corpse of the writer. A chair was rolled away, kicked from underneath him. It was a shocking sight to discover, your son dead and hung in his room with his desk chair kicked and a rope around his neck, coupled with the many bleeding scars on his arms.

On his desk sat an open, black notebook, with writing on it.

Soichiro walked to it, pale and tearful, and shocked to the core. Sayu and Sachiko had just left home, and he was just leaving. The notebook had a small note written there.

 _Light Yagami, hangs himself in room at 4 AM and dies thirty seconds later of suffocation and blood loss._

The rest of the page was completely blank.

He pulled on gloves—kept on Light's desk—and picked up the notebook. He used Light's camera to take pictures of the teen.

In about fifty seconds, the shock and pain would set in. But he had some time beforehand.

Evidence gathered and note taken, he left the room quietly, the door clicking shut behind him.

As he did so, the realization hit him like a bullet. His son was Kira.

His son was also dead.

He had hung himself.

Soichiro had a breakdown on the way to headquarters.

* * *

L was becoming slightly irritated. Yagami— _neither_ Yagami—had yet shown up, and they had evidence to review. It was almost twelve in the afternoon, and they were still absent.

At around half past, a knock on the door came. Watari reviewed the camera and confirmed the identity of Soichiro Yagami, holding a bag. But Light Yagami was nowhere to be found.

As L was about to question the elder Yagami, he spoke up in a flat, sad tone.

"Light is dead."

This shocked the Task Force immensely.

"What?"

"Was it Kira?"

"How?"

L, however, was silent as his thoughts whirled about frantically.

 _Light Yagami? Dead? No, this doesn't fit. Was it Kira? That would have to mean that he wasn't Kira, which I know for a fact he was. So... How?_

"I would also like to know how," he stated, biting his nail in thought as he looked at the man.

"He... He hung himself in his room at four this morning, speeding up the process by cutting his wrists... I took pictures and found a notebook on his desk, which I brought. I used gloves to pick it up," Soichiro said, handing over the bag with the newly developed photos and the notebook.

L, stunned and mind completely buzzing and frantically searching, but doing his best to cover it—not that he need bother, as the rest of the Task Force was too shocked to notice—opened the bag and removed the photos and notebook—which was sitting in a plastic bag.

The contents of the photos were disturbing, for lack of a better term. L wasn't expecting to see anything like it during this case. That is, his main suspect hanging from a ceiling fan by a rope with blood running down his arms from self-inflicted scars, tear tracks down his cheeks from his once open, intelligent, curious honey eyes.

Don't get L wrong, he didn't care about Yagami. He only cared about the fact that his main suspect was dead.

And if, deep down, the death of such an amazingly intelligent individual was part of it, well, nobody needed to know.


	2. Depression

_"Mental pain is less dramatic than physical pain, but it is more common and also more hard to bear. The frequent attempt to conceal mental pain increases the burden: it is easier to say "My tooth is aching" than to say "My heart is broken."_

 _~C.S. Lewis, The Problem of Pain_

* * *

Inside the notebook, other than the note that was written by the younger Yagami, were millions of names and a set of rules. Those rules, stating that the notebook killed with a heart attack and a name, were enough to convince them all of one thing:

This was real.

It wasn't a dream that they could escape from and wake up in a world where criminals hadn't dropped dead from supernatural heart attacks, where Shinigami were just legend and death notebooks didn't exist—a world where eighteen year-old boys didn't kill themselves out of guilt over the genocide of criminals.

They couldn't open their eyes and be safe and snug in their beds, not in this hotel with pictures of a teenager's suicide in hand, a notebook of murder on the table, and a death god calling himself "Ryuk" floating beside the doorway.

This realization, it seemed, brought them out of their moment of shock. It was Matsuda that asked the question on everyone's mind.

"Why?"

That simple, three-letter word. One of the major questions, one of the five 'W's of writing and journalism, and used so often on a day-to-day basis that it sometimes confused people. It would also be, in the next few months, the question that would begin everything.

If it were possible for a Shinigami to look saddened, then Ryuk would have achieved it. He had watched the horror of his—for lack of a better term— _friend's_ depression, and how it affected him. He had enjoyed Light's company, maybe even liked—not loved, no. He couldn't _love_ a human, for that would be catastrophic—the genius that always had a solution for everything and gave him apples. Ryuk didn't want to tell the story, he really didn't. It was gruesome and angstful and completely horrifying, but he had to.

Humor, for once in his existence, absent from his gravelly voice, Ryuk began to tell of how an object that didn't belong in the human world changed—and, consequently, ended—a young, seventeen year-old's life.

"The question, _why_ , is a rather loaded question," he began, "And would take a while to explain."

L was quick to reply to the Shinigami, being the only one not too nervous.

"We have time," he said simply in his usual monotone, looking to Ryuk.

"It began a few months ago..."

* * *

Light stood—for how long, he didn't know; it could have been minutes or hours—staring into the mirror. The eyes that looked back at him weren't his. His eyes were hazel, often mistaken for brown or honey, and, in the right lighting, they appeared a reddish shade. But not crimson. Not the bright red that stared back at him, like something out of a horror film.

Like the blood of the criminals he had killed without a thought.

He blinked, and his eyes were once again hazel. Like a figment of his imagination, the crimson had disappeared. He stepped away from the mirror, shaking his head, and left the room, closing the bathroom door behind him as he went.

He couldn't allow these thoughts to get to him. It was human nature to feel guilty.

He just couldn't allow a little guilt to deter him from his goal. It wouldn't affect him.

It couldn't.

He wouldn't let it.

* * *

The pen moved absently across the paper, filling in the answers to the exam as it went.

His mind was racing at a hundred miles per minute, filling his head with fleeting thoughts and vitriol.

 _You're a murderer._

 _Your hands may be clean, but they're covered in blood._

 _You're a hypocrite._

 _You think you can rule a utopia? You're creating a dystopia._

 _Your goal is that of a psychopath._

 ** _You should kill_ yourself _. After all, Kira is the worst criminal of them all._**

The last thought, the one that had been at the edge of his conscious all week, almost made him stop writing. It was true, Kira _had_ committed murder, had basically committed genocide (it wasn't an official genocide, as criminals are/were neither a religious group, a cultural group, an ethnic group, nor a political group), and, should he be caught, he would get the death penalty.

That scared him greatly. He was afraid to die.

 _What am I thinking? I can't die. I won't, and I'll achieve my goal._

* * *

His first attempt, well, almost-attempt, was stopped by Ryuk.

He was in the bathroom, seeing those red eyes, bottle of pills in hand, vitriol swirling about within his mind as it had for the past month.

His hand began shaking as he tilted the sleeping pills, several pouring into his hand.

"Hey, Light-o, where are the apples?"

Light, startled, dropped the damned things into the toilet. They were his last.

"Light?"

Ryuk was being rather persistent.

Light swallowed and turned to face him.

"Yes?"

His face—normally gruesomely twisted into an amused expression—seemed sad, but it could have been a trick of the light.

"Where are the apples?"

"There should be some in the kitchen," Light said simply, throwing the bottle away in his room trash as he walked inside.

He sat on his bed, staring at the wall, lost in thought.

He wouldn't—he _couldn't_ —let the guilt distract him from his goal.

It was becoming increasingly difficult.

* * *

Light threw the trash away that day, removing the evidence of his failure.

The venom and hate his mind spat at him worked its way into his dreams, tormenting him and causing dark circles under his eyes, almost worse than L's. So he bought lots of makeup and applied it each morning after his shower. He began wearing irritating contacts—translucent and slightly foggy because anything else would give away the fact that _he was hiding_ —that made him want to scratch his eyes out, trying to cover the bloodshot evidence of how he lies in bed each night, contemplating why he even tries anymore, is it worth it (he always ends up with the same answer, _of course it's worth it, the world will be a better place_ and he accepts it in an attempt to rest for only a little while. When he can finally close his eyes, he seems to be opening them again five seconds later to sunlight and the quiet beeping of his watch). He does his best to stay away from the other, _darker_ thoughts of torment, of _failure_ and _murderer_ and _hypocrite, no better than those you kill_ , that are always there at the edge of his conscious, waiting for the perfect opportunity to attack that only comes when he allows his mind to wander too far. He tries to keep them back, to hold them at bay, and he almost never succeeds. They frantically attack him like wasps, stinging and buzzing and _**make it stop, please just make it stop.**_

So Light applies his makeup to hide the proof of his struggle from the rest of the world and leaves the house.

He attends his courses (boring, unbearably dull) dutifully and goes to Headquarters after, sometimes bringing donuts, playing the role of the responsible eighteen-year-old college student. He plays the part like the actor he is and pretends to be "fine".

 _(Fine. Such a simple, English word with so many possible meanings.)_

He exchanges false-friendly banter with L and plays their game that seems to have no end, with new layers and twists and turns, unexpected expected surprises and the constant game of 'if this happens at that time the percentage will surely rise' (the tennis match, every word Light said near the detective and sometimes not), always trying to outsmart the other, even with small things. It was exhausting.

But Light was "fine" (Frowzled. Insensate. Narcissistic. Emotionless) even though he wished he was dead. He was good. He was alright.

* * *

As the months passed, it became increasingly difficult to fake being "fine" and people were starting to notice. People like L and the task force.

But Light brushed them off, blaming the case and lack of progress.

("Honestly, anyone would be stressed. I'm _fine_.")

In his room, however, with nobody but Ryuk, he cried.

Light Yagami screamed (his parents weren't home, Sayu was at school) and he threw things.

The whole time Ryuk just watched, sad expression almost showing. He watched as a lamp shattered (it would later be explained to a worried Sachiko as an accident) and blood fell to the floor (Light was very violent and had decided to try cutting his wrists with the glass from the lamp). He did, however, intervene when Light tried to kill himself for the fifth time that year.

"Light, you don't want to die. You have a whole world out there…"

He was ignored, but Light put down the shard and cleaned the room.

Light, at that moment, realized that he couldn't stop the guilt, and had failed long before this point.

The realization provided more fuel for his self-deprecating mind.

He vaguely wondered if he could die from lack of sleep, but dismissed it as nonsensical musing and useless hope.


	3. Hero, Villain

_"Everyone is necessarily the hero of his own life story."_

 _~John Barth_

* * *

Light knew that he was slowly getting closer to the edge of something he wouldn't be able to escape alone. He could feel it, each day, as he showered ( _wash away my sins. Wash away the crazy. Wash away the lies. **Wash the blood away**_ ) dressed for classes (fancy shirts, dressy shoes, fitted pants) and applied his now-routine cosmetics (Conceal the evidence) and contacts (bloodshot eyes, itchy and uncomfortable, further irritated by the contacts). Nevertheless, he didn't falter.

There was no light to guide him, this time, like when he was a young child and had gotten lost in the hallway at night, so he had used a flashlight to go to the bathroom. There was no guardian angel to come and save him, help him, _guide him, advise him._ There was no wise mentor to listen to his problems and give him a solution.

Because he was the villain of his story, and the villain never gets a happy ending. After all, the story was made for the hero, who would eventually beat the villain and live an amazing life. The villain doesn't get help or sympathy. Nobody really cares about the villain.

So he continued to inch closer. Closer to that dark pit of despair, as if in a trance, never stepping back. He continued to move towards that cliff, with only one way to go once he reached it—down. Down into that black, bottomless abyss with no way to crawl back out. Down into the shadowy hole with no escape. Down, down, _down_ , never reaching the bottom because there wasn't one _to_ reach.

As the days, hours, minutes, seconds, _moments_ passed, he moved farther away from the safety of the plateau, drawing nearer the ledge, closer to the black chasm that would swallow him whole, never to be seen again.

But he continued on.

Even though, on the inside, he was screaming in sheer and utter _terror_.

* * *

Light sat in a lecture (repetitive, useless, _boring_ , **_dull_** ) and he dutifully took notes. He finished his classes for the day and headed to Headquarters.

"Yagami-kun," L—Ryuuzaki, Ryuuzaki, _Ryuuzaki_ ( _must not forget, call the man **Ryuuzaki**_ —) greeted him as he entered, never looking up, never seeing him, never breaking his monotone.

"Ryuuzaki."

And thus began another day of ( ** _I want to die. Kill me kill mekillmekillmekillmeplease_** ) work. Another day of pretending to analyze messages ( ** _he already knew what they meant. So he pretended to look and think_** ) he had sent and figuring out patterns in the Kira killings ( ** _every day, Kira kills around fifty criminals…_** _he tries not to wince, not to look down in shame. His bangs hide his watery eyes_ ). Another agonizing day of veiled taunts ( _"Yagami-kun, could you get me some coffee? Unless you're too busy…"_ ) and backhanded compliments. ( _"You're the smartest in Japan? That must be an accomplishment…"_ )

Another day of mind-numbing boredom and repetition.

But he still did not falter.

* * *

 _If I am the villain, what does that make L?_

The thought, so different from the other, darker, more _painful_ ones that had been flying through his head, startled him. It was a good question, in complete honesty. He didn't believe L to be the hero—at least, not _completely_ —, but he could be. After all, isn't the hero the one who beats—or, in his case, capture and arrest—the villain?

 _Perhaps L is in his own category. Something like "good villain". Yes, that seems to suit him best. He's the good guy that is also a villain._

Having decided this, Light continued to analyze and solve, determined not to break his mask. It would be too risky.

As he worked, Light began to contemplate.

 _If I am the villain and L is the good villain, what does that make Ryuk, or the taskforce? Bystanders? Or maybe something completely different from the 'Villain, Hero, Bystander, Victim' classification?_

He breathed in, a migraine coming on as L chewed on a crunchy sweet that smelled like peanut butter and honey. He wanted to throw up.

 _They don't fit any of those classifications, so they must have other roles. Ryuk is spectator, neither caring nor helping, but getting entertainment nevertheless. He holds no true value. The taskforce is support. They try to help the story—and sometimes succeed—and they are on the good villain's side._

A thought occurred to him.

 _But if I'm the villain, Ryuk is spectator, the taskforce is support, and L is good villain… who's the hero?_

 _Is there a hero? Logically, I'm the hero in my own story. But I'm not the hero. I became the villain…_

* * *

It seemed there was no hero in this story. Perhaps it was nigh time the—his—story come to its inevitable ( _already planned, has been since the beginning_ ) resolution.

Maybe he would be the hero, at long last.

After all, the hero beats the villain in the end.


	4. Abyss

_"One mustn't look at the abyss, because there is at the bottom an inexpressible charm which attracts us."_

 _~Gustave Flaubert_

* * *

Light could feel the ( _black, dark, **welcome**_ ) call ( _like a siren_ ) of the chasm. It was so, _so very_ tempting, to just…

Step off. Step off and plummet. Maybe the voices would stop.

But he couldn't, at least not yet. He could hold on a little longer.

He wasn't sure how long, though

Light sat in class again.

It was, as always, unbearably boring. However, he was approached by Kiyome Takada after class, and she asked him if he wanted to maybe get something to eat that evening.

( _No, no, nonononono. I don't want to eat. I don't deserve food. **Finally listening, are we, Yagami?**_ ) "Sure. I'll meet you at six."

( ** _Useless. Can't even turn down a girl. Just go die already. It'll make everyone happy…_** )

"Okay."

She walked away. He calmly walked to the men's room and promptly threw up in the toilet.

He was _not_ looking forward to that evening.

* * *

After dinner, once he got home, he realized he may have a problem.

After all, making yourself violently vomit your dinner was most definitely _not_ normal.

The next morning, he forced himself to eat two blueberry muffins. He did not make himself throw them back up. (The taunts and teases persisted and he wanted to _make them stop_ but couldn't without making himself stop at the same time)

Light Yagami could never have an eating disorder. Especially one such as bulimia.

He wouldn't allow it.

It was the one thing within his control. His sanity was slipping. His willpower was fading. His life was wavering.

He couldn't lose that.

For if he did, he would surely fall.

And he couldn't fall. He _couldn't._

But he was.

* * *

Light looked _down_ , into the dark pit of eternal despair. He knew it was a mistake but his control was slipping from his fingertips. He was losing his self and his mind.

It looked like it would be a very long drop.

Then again, looks can be deceiving.

* * *

Light sat on the couch in Headquarters, looking through more "evidence" and comparing times of death and finding more patterns ( _deliberately created to throw everything off track_ ).

As he looked at the newest victims, a horrifying connection was made in his mind.

Kira had killed five hundred thousand criminals.

"Is Light-kun alright?"

L's monotonous voice was distant, as if he were underwater.

His breathing was irregular, erratic, even.

He took a deep breath. He would not have a panic attack.

"I think I'm going to go home…"

Without waiting for a reply or a response, Light left headquarters calmly.

* * *

He was done. Kira (he, _I_ ) had killed five hundred _thousand_.

Half a million peoples' blood was spilled by him.

He had killed half a million human beings. _Living, breathing, thinking_ human beings.

Light let go.

The fall was not a very long one.

Or maybe that was how it felt. Maybe he had been falling for a while, completely unaware, but knowing at the same time.


	5. Overcome

" _Walk while ye have the light, lest darkness come upon you."_

 _~John Ruskin_

As a child, Light had always seen the things nobody else saw. He saw the veins of the leaves, the pebbles in the roads, and the way everything was made of shapes and patterns.

The way some adults' eyes would flicker away quickly when they said certain things in conversation, the way they seemed to pause for a brief moment, as if considering what to say next and what would be too much. Deciding whether they should lie or be truthful.

Oh, they may have thought he didn't notice, but he did. He always did. He soon began watching and listening for the subtle shift in posture, the hesitation, the nervous gestures.

Maybe that was why and when the darkness began to peel away the pieces of his English namesake, too pure and bright was it to live in such a world of deceit and manipulation. Perhaps he was light in nothing but name before he even entered high school. Maybe even junior high.

Maybe it was the exposure.

The exposure to death and darkness and rage and crime that one so young shouldn't bare witness to. Overheard late-night rantings about how evil crime was and how the world was a twisted place. Loud tirades regarding the dying world, always taking place far past his bed time, late into the night, when Soichiro thought him to be long since asleep.

Perhaps the exposure chipped away at the bright, pure shell of childhood and left nothing but darkness and a festering wound of _evil_ and _hate_ and _rotten_ _rotten_ _this world is_ ** _rotten_** _it needs to be fixed_ that shouldn't be left alone for years to grow and spread to the mind lest one wish for a maelstrom of pure, consuming **_darkness_** that fights to be released from the metal and steel chains keeping it locked away.

Maybe it was none of these things, but instead something else entirely.

Maybe he was born that way, with no light to walk in from the beginning. Maybe his path was always dark, like that from the start and only growing darker to the end.

Either way, he had long since lost the light to the darkness.

The darkness seemed to caress him, gently beaconing him deeper with whispered promises of _safety_ and _comfort_ and the **_pain will all go away_**.

"The lack of action from Kira is worrying, to say the least, " L began one particularly difficult afternoon, having spent the morning with the task force looking over evidence and catching up.

"How so, Ryuuzaki?" Matsuda asked the detective, clueless as ever. "Shouldn't this be a good sign?"

L— ** _Ryuuzaki, Ryuuzaki, Ryuuzaki RyuuzakiRyuuzaki. We've been over this before. Call him Ryuuzaki_** —looked at Matsuda like he had suggested they all quit their jobs, go out for ice cream, and take a vacation to the Bahamas for a while. "No, Matsuda, the lack of action from Kira is a bad thing for several reasons, though the main is that he could be planning something big that we will not be prepared for. If he is, indeed, planning something, we could all die." L's explanation seemed to deflate the energetic detective and he closed his mouth.

Light had tuned out of the conversation, having known his inactivity would be the main topic of the day. He was tired of the predictability of it all. He tuned back in, however, as L began dating a donut.

It made him feel sickened, the sweetness of the treat practically tangible, the smell causing him to gag slightly. The English tea, imfused with sugar as it was, that followed was the last straw. Light ran.

 _I have to get out._

"Light!" His father's concerned shout followed him out the door.

It was an especially sunny afternoon, with the humid air blaring down on his exposed neck as he leaned against the wall of the hotel, gasping for breath.

The smell of all of that sugar had made him feel nauseous, pressing in on all sides and suffocating him, what with his recent lack of nourishment in general.

You can't gain nourishment if you immediately remove the food from your system, the idea that you deserve to eat ringing in your head like a pesky fly, annoying yet seemingly impossible to catch.

Recently, the mere thought of food had him gagging and dry heaving.

It was not how he wished to be viewed.

The darkness was sweet and gentle, like a silk blanket, as he fell through its black, shadowy depths to the inevitable stop at the bottom.

Maybe the darkness would make that gentle, too.


	6. Undeserved

_"The greater the gap between self perception and reality, the more aggression is unleashed on those who point out the discrepancy."_

 _~Stefan Molyneux_

Light smiled brightly at the flawless skin and healthy body in front of him. The silky hair and the light, intelligent eyes.

All figments of his imagination conjured up to save him from the horror of looking at himself in the mirror.

 _Fake,_ _Ugly,_ _Imperfect,_

 ** _You aren't good enough. Why poison them with your presence?_**

He ignores the voice as he tries a new facial expression.

He lifts an eyebrow.

And the illusion shatters.

He sees pale skin, a gaunt complexion.

His hair no longer shined or felt silky.

His eyes no longer glowed with any kind of light.

And he was hungry.

 _I am not bulimic._

He went downstairs, and grabbed an apple. He took a bite out of it, as if trying to prove a point to nobody but himself.

And promptly began tearing into the apple as if he were starved.

He got another, and another, and by the time he gathered his senses, he had devoured seven of the red fruits.

He had eaten _seven._

 _Seven whole apples._

 ** _My god, what is wrong with me?_**

Poor Ryuk. There were none left...

Light leaned over the toilet and shoved two fingers down his throat.

As he lay, panting, forehead against the cool toilet, down at his waistband— _you idiot, you're feeding them_ —he noticed a slight protrusion...

He was gaining weight.

No, no, no!

He is _perfect_ , the perfect son, the perfect student, the perfect _role model_ , he cannot become _fat_ on top of heartless!

He vowed to himself not to eat _anything_ until it went away. (he ignored the fact that he was planning to starve himself to lose weight because ** _I am the perfect role model_** and **_I don't have an eating disorder_** )

And maybe he'd jog a little ( ** _yeah right. You can barely muster up the courage to leave your room_** )

Yes, he would get his perfect body back. (and maybe the scars would go away, too)

And, with that thought comforting him (in a sick, twisted way), he left the bathroom and set off to bed ( ** _hopefully I won't wake up..._** )

Ryuk knew something was wrong. (horribly, terribly, atrociously wrong)

He had heard the sounds of vomiting. (had smelled the scent of blood)

He had gone to the kitchen and noticed that there were no apples left.

What had happened?

"Light-o...?"

Light glanced up at him from his spot in the doorway.

"Ryuk?"

His eyes were startlingly dull (nothing new there), but had a small speck of determination. (a very welcome, if not disturbing, sight to Ryuk)

What was Light planning?

"You okay? You look pale. And I heard you vomiting..." he trailed off.

"I'm fine! And I am not pale," Light snapped abruptly. (too quickly, a dead give away that he's lying)

(Ryuk chooses to ignore this)

Light ignored Ryuk as he got into bed.

Ryuk noticed worriedly that Light didn't sleep in his pajamas anymore. (as if he were afraid to show his body, for even a second)

What was wrong with Light? (He already knows) And why was he so defensive? (Because he is hiding)

He tries to ignore the shirt riding up Light's waist and arm slightly in the dim room, illuminated only by the light of the moon.

(Because, should he acknowledge the scars and sickly skin, he would have to acknowledge the fact that _this is actually happening_

And Ryuk just can't do that, can't accept that the only person with the guts to look a Shinigami in the eyes and call them an idiot without fear is slowly killing themselves)


	7. Written

_"Write something, even if it's just a suicide note."_

 _~Gore Vidal_

Light tried, one last time before he reached the bottom, to find the top, to break the trance.

He had been contemplating a knife on his bed, Ryuk having been somewhere in the city, probably people–watching.

He had brought it to his pale (when had he become so pale?) wrist, the blade (keen, so, so close to the sources of his precious lifeblood), when one thought occurred to him.

What have I done?

It was a logical thought. Any normal human—and here, he scoffs, for he is far from normal—would ask themselves what had happened to their skin (knowing full well that they had sliced it open in a moment of hopelessness), what had caused the scars and blood (aware that _they themselves_ were the cause).

But they already know, just as he already knows, for how can he not?

One does not so easily forget the biting sting of the metal, nor do they forget the crimson rain of blood. One _cannot_ easily forget the addicting slice of the edge of a sharp blade against skin, the intoxicating scent of crimson and copper.

No, this question is pointless, merely there tor attempt to bring attention to their actions one final time and perhaps trick themselves intp believing that they are not responsible (for if you blame the blade, you are not at fault). But the question has no meaning otherwise.

Light's answer was obvious. He nearly scoffed at his own idiocy.

But with the question came clarity—of a sort—, and Light removed the blade.

He instead decided to take a shower.

He scrubbed until his skin was raw and sore and ready to bleed, so, so very tender to the touch. It was an irritated pinkish.

When he stepped out, he gently toweled off with a fluffy white towel and soft dabs at his irate skin and brittle hair.

He decided to try taking a nap, despite the fact that he had not been able to sleep in a month (may as well try one last time).

Light gave it up as a bad idea and just bad luck in general after only ten minutes.

(The note was a last-minute decision)

He pulled his chair over, took his favorite, precious blade...

…And knew no more.


	8. Paradigm

_"The more a mind thinks upon something, the deeper it will take root and affect all subsequent and related thought."_

 _~A.J. Darkholme, Rise of the Morningstar_

At the conclusion of the rather uncharacteristic story, L found himself frowning.

 _It doesn't add up... Guilt and eating disorders? Sure, Yagami-kun is certainly a ripe candidate for such a disorder but mental instability? A top student such as himself likely wouldn't have such a disastrously fractured mental state unless there was an external influence... Maybe the notebook was subtly altering his mind? Perhaps the paranormal origins of the notebook coupled with the fact that said notebook was not intended to be handled and used by humans had a negative effect on his possibly already fragile mental health? No, his mind was most definitely outwardly influenced by the notebook... But the notebook's effects wouldn't have incited such an immense psychological shattering... There had to have already been a fragility present... Otherwise, everyone in this room would have felt a shift in their mental stability due to the Shinigami's presence and their interactions with it..._

"Matsuda!" L suddenly exclaimed to the naïve, excitable officer. "Have you noticed any unusual thoughts since Ryuk entered the room?"

The young detective looked confused. "No, not really. I mean, obviously, this whole story is an odd thing in itself so there's that! But otherwise, no..."

 _Just as I thought. Those with a stable mind aren't as badly affected by stimuli from the Shinigami Realm... Even taking into account the fact that directly using the notebook and simply interacting with a Shinigami must have different levels of influence due to obvious reasons... The notebook is still only a notebook, even if it is unnatural and has a negative essence. The question is... What caused the fragility in the first place?_

"When will the wake be held, sir?" Matsuda, again.

"I haven't even thought about that. I only discovered Light's... body... this morning after Sachiko and Sayu had left... I'm honestly still in shock..."

Aizawa reached over and smacked Matsuda on the back of the head for his insensitivity.

"Forgive me for asking, Yagami-san, but did Light ever show signs of depression or unmanageable stress? Perhaps he bottled his anxieties up? How often did he go out?"

Soichiro glanced at L as he considered. "Depression? Not that I can remember, no, but he did have a tendency to push aside his own needs and emotions to satisfy others'. Especially when it came to Sayu. And I don't think he ever really dated. He wasn't interested in it."

 _Self-destructive selflessness? Or, perhaps, unintentional ignorance of his own needs? Coupled with the stress of maintaining his place in academics and no obvious stress relief... It was only a matter of time before he snapped... Or shattered, in this case. The notebook seems to have simply moved the process along._

"As a child, did Light have play dates with other children or perhaps he had an imaginary friend?"

A shake of the head on the chief's part. "No, he never really had childhood companionship. He did make some friends in high school, but even then he didn't go out with them or stay at their homes. He generally stayed in his room studying or reading. Sachiko and I were concerned when he was younger, actually, and tried to get him in to see a counselor but his case was dismissed."

L nodded subtly. "Thank you, Yagami-san," he said, spinning his chair around to face his laptop.

Watari came into the room then with an unreadable file.

"Thank you, Watari." L turned back around, "That will be all for today. Thank you for your time. Yagami-san, please notify me of the date of the wake when decided. I give you my condolences."

"I will. Thank you."

As the task force filtered out of the door, L found himself feeling disappointed.

 _This cat–mouse game has come to an unfortunate conclusion. I do regret the loss of such an opportunity._


End file.
